The Silent Observer
by Random Ruth
Summary: The story of Sherlock Holmes through slightly different eyes - those of his beloved teddy bear. Warnings: fluff in both senses of the word and baby Sherlock. Cover by yours truly. Complete.
1. My Friend

Almost every evening, without fail, my friend takes my paw and runs down the grand staircase. I swing by his side and the air _whooshes _through my fur and tickles my tummy. If I had a mouth I would say to my friend, "Again, again!" but I am a teddy bear and cannot speak. We reach the bottom and he takes us to a large room with two tall windows. Books line shelves and there is a heavy wooden, polished desk in front of the windows with stacks of abandoned paper upon it.

We stop in the centre of the room and he slowly turns around. He still is holding my paw and as the room spins, I can see the spines of the books. Some are more intact than others – one doesn't even have a spine! Eventually my friend's gaze has landed on his book of choice so he sets me down and makes sure I don't fall. He pats my head and moves away. I can see him from the corner of my eye as he stands on a chair and reaches up high to collect the book. He pulls it down and comes back over to me. He sits down beside me and opens the book. Dust fills the air and he sneezes.

The book is a huge, grassy green one with half a spine. I listen to him flicking the pages. "Ah, this is the bit I was looking at, Teddy," he says. Maybe I should point out now that my name is Teddy since that's what my friend's mummy chose to call me. I like my name and – oh, he's talking again. "Do you remember this bit?"

I have to admit that I don't.

"No, I didn't think so," and he tilts the book so that the pages are visible to me too. There's a picture of a grown-up in a suit. He looks overstuffed, like one of my friend's other teddy bears. "Winston Churchill," he reminds me.

I remain unmoved. I remember now, though, what we were reading about yesterday. You see, my friend is becoming extremely interested in something called 'politics'. As a teddy bear, I don't care much for it.

"When I grow up, I would love to be a politician," announces Mycroft. He sounds excited. "Can you imagine? I could be like Winston Churchill!" Looking at the picture now, I can hardly share in his enthusiasm. He doesn't have a cigar for a start. But I suppose, as he is my friend, he would make a good government-person.

Before he asks me for my further opinion we are interrupted by a call of, "Mycroft?" from outside the room.

My friend turns to stare at the door and replies, "In here, Mummy." My friend's mummy walks in with a grin on her face. She always knows that we're here but hardly ever interrupts us so something important must have happened. She comes to a stop in front of us and mirrors my friend's pose by sitting in front of him and crossing her legs like a child. I have never seen a grown-up sit like that before. She puts her elbows on her knees and rests her chin on her hands. Even sitting down, she is very tall. But then all grown-ups are.

She asks, "What are you reading, sweetheart?"

My friend closes the green book and the dust flies once again, a few specks landing on my shiny black nose. He holds up the cover for her to see. "Father's book on politics. It's very interesting." She nods, brown hair bouncing up and down.

"My little politician," she says proudly. Takes a deep breath and adds, "I've got some news for you."

"What is it?" Mycroft asks, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Mycroft's mummy exhales, looks him in the eye and says, "You're going to have a little brother or sister…"

* * *

><p>Over the following months the reading material changes from politics to maternity. There are no books in the study on the subject so my friend is forced to borrow a few from the library. We sit together in the middle of the study one day with a pile of unread books in front of us. He picks up the first one and flicks to the first page. "The human male…" he begins, but rapidly trails off. His mouth drops open and I am denied the end of the sentence. Mycroft's face is one of absolute horror, so perhaps I should be grateful. He abruptly shuts the book.<p>

He looks at me. I look at him.

We don't read any of the others.

* * *

><p>Every time I see Mummy she's that little bit bigger. Her tummy's growing and no matter how many times I try to explain to her that she is becoming overstuffed, she just pats my head and leaves me in Mycroft's room with an explanation of, "Mycroft's at school."<p>

It happens every day. I want to sit on the kitchen table and wait for my friend to come back, but she grabs me around my tummy and carries me upstairs. But one day when it's really too hot for me on the kitchen table and I'm for once looking forward to going upstairs, she sits down at the table with a cup of coffee and a chocolate bar. Her tummy is now bigger than the expensive vase in the front hall and she could probably use it for a table, but I don't mention this.

She has a guilty look on her face as she rips the chocolate's wrapper open, setting it to one side. "Let's not mention this to Rodger, shall we?" she whispers to me. She finishes the chocolate incredibly quickly but breaks a little piece off of the end and sets it on the table beside me. "For Mycroft."

She doesn't take me upstairs anymore and seems to make a big deal out of moving at all. Overstuffed, that's all I'm saying.

* * *

><p>Mycroft and I are in his bedroom one night when his father bursts in. "You've got a brother!" he says, wild. "A <em>brother<em>!" Nanny comes in, frowning in confusion.

"What's all the noise? What's going on?" she asks, adding, "Sir," when she spots Father.

"A boy!" he replies.

* * *

><p>We are taken to the hospital which is a very white place. In one room of many, there lies my friend's mummy, fast asleep. Mycroft holds my paw as his father leads us in. He turns to us and mouths, 'Shh.' We tip-toe over to a box on wheels. On blankets, also asleep, is—<p>

"That's a baby," states Mycroft simply. He holds me up so I can see inside the box.

His father nods. "Your baby brother." He rubs his finger along the baby's cheek gently – which startles me because usually he's quite a rough fellow. He nearly tore one of my ears off once – Nanny had to give me some extra stitches. "Do you know what we're calling him?"

"No," he says. While Mycroft is talking I place my paw on the edge of the box. At this, the baby opens his eyes. A striking blue they are, even when he's just appeared, a blue which rivals the blue of the ribbon around my neck. He sees us and begins to gurgle.

"We're calling him…"

The gurgling grows louder and I wish to cover my ears. My friend and I never did finish that baby book, but he did tell me that babies can be very loud. Sure enough, the wailing begins. Mycroft's mummy jerks awake. Father winces. Mycroft stares at the screaming baby.

And suddenly I'm moving, being laid down on a soft blanket beside a wriggling warm thing. I'm set down beside the baby's head. And two blue eyes are staring at me. The room falls silent again.

Father finishes, in a whisper as not to wake the baby again, "We're calling him Sherlock."


	2. Changing Hands

I am a teddy bear, ten inches tall. I have dark brown fur, paws and muzzle of a lighter shade of brown. I am reasonably fluffy. My nose is black and lovingly polished when it gets too many finger marks on it. My eyes are blue, a shade that matches the ribbon which is tied around my neck and is tied together with a bow. I was a present, you see. I began in a shop; one bear in a row of many but the only one with fur that was brown. Beside me on the shelf was a yellow bear, and beside the yellow bear was a blue one. A kindly woman came into the shop one day, looked at each of us in turn. Under her scrutiny, we all sat to attention and didn't move. When she spoke, her accent was a different one than what I was used to.

"I don't think Mycroft would appreciate the creative licence of you three," she said, addressing my fellow bears, "but _you_," she turned to me, "will do nicely." She picked me up from the shelf. When we left the shop, she peeled something sticky off my chest. I caught a glimpse of what was written on the sticky thing – _€14.99_ – before it was scrunched up in her hand and thrown into a nearby bin.

I met my friend soon after, and so it hurts me more than I can say when, after his father has asked him, "But I thought that bear was yours?" my friend simply shrugs.

His gaze drops to the baby – the Sherlock – which is sleeping beside me and is mouthing my tail as it dreams. The soft gums tickle. Mycroft moves me a little further away so that my tail doesn't end up being eaten.

"You like that bear," his father goes on. I would prefer if he used my name, but it's a change from 'thing', which is what I used to be called by him.

"I do," Mycroft is quick to correct. He smiles, but I know him well enough by now and I can see it in his eyes: he's sad. "But…" and his hesitation gives him away, "Sherlock seems to like him better. Besides, I'm too old for a teddy bear now." He pauses. Then, as if to reassure himself, "Seven's too old for bears."

The words sink deep into my stuffed heart and stay there, refusing to budge. I feel betrayed, to put it simply.

Without warning, Mycroft and Father leave. I can hear light snoring from Mummy. There is a tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically beside me. And all I can think is: _Who's going to read to me now?_

* * *

><p>Within a week Mummy, Sherlock and I arrive back at home. The grand staircase is a familiar and welcome sight. Mycroft greets us, Nanny standing beside him. He avoids looking at me. I'm beside the sleeping Sherlock in the pram.<p>

Nanny coos, "Aw, look at 'im!" She turns to Mycroft, "Look!"

Mycroft doesn't, for looking at Sherlock would mean looking at me. "I've seen him," he says. He's still looking sad and I want to give him a hug or do something to cheer him up, but I don't know what to do.

Father follows us in after parking the car. Much to my annoyance, he picks me up by the damaged ear and takes me out of the pram and away from Sherlock. "He doesn't need that dirty thing…" Instantly the baby is alert, lower lip beginning to tremble. Nanny quickly snatches me back from Father's grasp before placing me back beside Sherlock and tucking me in beside him and under the blanket.

He calms down and instead stares at the three grown-ups and Mycroft with bright blue eyes.

And even though he can't read me a story yet, I am beginning to think of Sherlock as a friend. It may be selfish of me to think so, but I know that it will be some time before he is 'too old for bears'. As I was there for Mycroft before him, I will be there for Sherlock.

* * *

><p>I am there as he begins to crawl around the kitchen and get in Cook's way. She picks him up off the floor and bounces him up and down with her hands around his waist. "Silly little man!" she says fondly, and sets him down again on the other side of the room with the rest of his toys and me. It isn't long before he bumps into her leg again.<p>

She abandons the stew which is heating on the stove and brings him back over to me. He gurgles in happiness and waves his arms and legs as she carries him. She sits down on his colourful play mat, crosses her legs and sets Sherlock on her lap. He fits snugly and waves his arms in my direction. She miscalculates what he wants and picks up a soft cube with numbers on it. Cook places it into his arms and he says, "Mmmna!" and chucks it to the floor in apparent disgust.

Realisation dawns on her face. "Oh, do you want to play with Teddy?" she asks.

"Mmmna!" says Sherlock, once again waving his arms in the air dramatically. Cook smiles and reaches over to pick me up. I am so far away that she has to drag me over by the paw, but I don't mind too much, for Cook is a kind woman and doesn't mean any harm by it. She comes every Sunday to cook the dinner for the family and do housework which Mummy hasn't been able to do during the week.

Once I've bumped into Cook's legs, she hoists me up and sets me on her lap beside my friend Sherlock. "Mmmna!" he says in happiness and starts to pull at my ear (the one with the extra stitches in it). Cook gently bats his hand away.

"Careful, Sherlock," she warns gently. "You don't want to hurt him, do you?"

In slightly more subdued tones Sherlock replies, "Mmmna."

"Exactly." I notice that he's begun to fiddle with her apron mere seconds before she does. Again, she gently moves his hand away. "How about a story? Would you two like that?" Sherlock doesn't make a sound, so Cook turns to me. "Teddy, would you like a story?" she asks me. She brings two fingers to the base of my neck and makes me nod eagerly. "See, Sherlock? Teddy would love to hear a story!"

At my 'agreement', Sherlock says, "Mmmna," and the argument is settled. Cook reaches over to Sherlock's box of toys and rummages in it for a book. Her hand comes back again with a book that Mycroft used to own and read to me.

She makes sure that we're both comfortable on her lap before opening the book. "_Once upon a time_…" she begins.

* * *

><p>When Mummy wakes up from her nap, Mycroft returns from the garden and Father emerges from his study, they arrive in the dining room to an overcooked stew. I can watch from the open door as they eat. Once I would have wished to be with them, but not now. Sherlock is sleeping beside me, his arm is too short to go around my waist but he's tried his best, and there is no other place I'd rather be.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thank you so much for the reviews, and also to those who added this story to their favourites or alerts list. It means a lot to Teddy and I to know that you're enjoying the story.


	3. Sweet Dreams

Every night Sherlock sleeps in his parents' room. He has an old-fashioned cot with wooden rail around it. It's like a miniature prison and it needs to be, for Sherlock's need to explore is growing by the day. Mummy tucks him in underneath the blankets at bedtime with me alongside. She brushes some of her long hair behind her ear before giving Sherlock a light kiss on the forehead.

"Night, night, Sherlock," she says softly before straightening up and flicking the mobile which hangs above us. It's a simple thing which Mycroft made for Sherlock a few weeks ago on a rainy day. It's got a mixture of everything – Mycroft's drawn a horse and stuck it onto some string, on another piece of string hangs a drawing of a pirate ship. In the centre hangs a picture of me; it's bigger than the other pictures on the mobile and surprisingly detailed. Sherlock watches the mobile as it spins a few times.

The light is switched off and we hear the rustling of blankets from the four-poster bed as Mummy slips in. Father isn't at home tonight because he's on a business trip to Ireland, so she has a lot of room to stretch her legs. She sighs in contentment and quickly falls asleep.

Sherlock is a completely different story.

The mobile above our heads slows to a stop. He grows restless and tries to crawl out from under the covers, but between being tucked in and having me beside him; he doesn't have much room to manoeuvre. He kicks his legs wildly and flaps his arms a bit, but the blanket sticks to my fur so it only loosens on his side. Using me for leverage, he rolls over onto his tummy and in the process only becomes more entangled in the blanket. But Sherlock is pretty clever, even at this age, and he's already worked out that if he crawls forwards from where he is now he should be free. He does this and much to his dismay the blanket sticks to his baby grow; it was washed recently and Sherlock only began wearing it today.

Sherlock's eyes go wide at this unexpected hindrance. His crawling has become stronger by now, so he turns around regardless and ends up on top of me. It's not the most comfortable of positions and I'm feeling a little squashed. He seems to agree and begins to crawl to the other end of the cot. I watch as he keeps crawling until he's forced to stop by his nose hitting a wooden bar on the edge of the cot. He screws up his nose and sits back on his bum and puts both of his hands on the bars. He reminds me of a caged animal. I can see what he wants, though – he is now at the end of the cot which is nearest to Mummy's current location. Unfortunately, I am powerless to help him in his daring escape.

He takes in the height of the cot's edges and comes to exactly the same conclusion as I: it's too tall and Sherlock's too small. And so, like every baby would do, he begins to cry. Loudly.

Mummy was previously in a well-deserved and deep sleep but at the sound of her baby crying she wakes up. Judging by the volume of my friend's cries half of England probably wakes up too. Mummy slips out of bed and comes over to us, before taking little Sherlock into her arms. He calms down and is content to poke at her arm. She glances at the clock, squinting to read it with just the moonlight to guide her.

"Less than fifteen minutes! I had less than fifteen minutes of sleep just then. Do you know what that does to Mummy, Sherlock?" she says. She doesn't wait for an answer. "I'll tell you what, little man – exhaustion!" Sherlock giggles as if he understands what she's saying. She laughs along with him. "Oh, you like the sound of that, do you?" She makes a face and says, "Exhaustion!" Sherlock giggles again.

"You'll get to learn all about that when you're," she yawns, "older." He wriggles and she holds him at arm's length. "But honestly, I know all about it." She gives him a peck on the cheek and sets him down beside me again. "Settle down now, Sherlock."

Sherlock does the exact opposite and immediately crawls over to the side of the cot. When that doesn't work, he begins to crawl around in circles. Mummy rolls her eyes in the dim light and picks him up again. She glances at her bed. "Every single parenting book tells me that I should not let you sleep in my bed… but that's never stopped me before." She smiles and picks me up around the waist and squeezes reassuringly. With Sherlock in one arm and me in the other, she has her hands full. She sets me down first and I lie on my back in the warm bed. Sherlock joins me a few seconds later and the whole bed dips when Mummy clambers in and lies on her side, facing us. The duvet is comfortably heavy as she pulls it up and over us. Sherlock stops wriggling when Mummy pulls him close.

It doesn't take them both long to fall asleep again. I have to admit that I am quite happy to watch them sleep, Sherlock safe in his mother's arms. It's a rare, quiet moment.

Minutes pass, then an hour. As a teddy bear, I am naturally patient. It is my job to simply be there with my friend. I wait on my friend, I listen to my friend's every word (even if at this stage the only word is 'mmmna') and I provide company in times of loneliness. The room is quiet, the only sounds to reach my ears those of breathing and a ticking clock.

* * *

><p>At around midnight, I hear the door to Mummy's room open. The light footfalls of bare feet on a thick carpet give the person away to be Mycroft. Sure enough, he is at my side within a minute. He carefully slips in underneath the duvet and since no one's been cuddling me he holds me close and gives me a hug.<p>

"I had a bad dream, Teddy," he whispers into my ear. "I can't sleep on my own…" His breathing evens out and I know that he too has fallen asleep.

The bed is crowded now, but I really don't mind. It's warm and cosy and Mycroft's breathing is making my ear flap back and forth.


	4. Snow

I have spent all night alternating between watching Sherlock sleep and watching the snowflakes fall outside the window. He is sleeping for most of the night now, once he eventually settles, that is. There are extra blankets covering us now that it's winter and the weather's colder and I'm trying my best to keep Sherlock warm too. He's so much bigger now, it's frightening, especially when he rolls over and ends up on top of me – and since he's bigger now and the cot is relatively smaller there is little room for me.

The alarm clock begins to beep and Sherlock is quicker to wake than Mummy is. He clumsily gets to his feet and calls over the edge of the cot, "Money up!" which is what he calls Mummy, since he's struggling to grasp the concept of the word.

She groans in bed and slams the palm of her hand down on the top of the alarm clock to make it stop. She doesn't get up. Sherlock frowns, an expression which I don't think fits on his face, and in a move which I am reluctant to partake in, he throws me across the room. I land short, coming to a stop a little way away from Mummy's slippers. "Money _up_!" he says again. He begins to jump up and down. "Teddy up!" He wants me to come back to him but I'm feeling stubborn so don't move.

With no ammunition left he is forced to wait until Mummy_ feels_ like getting up. As he's waiting his gaze lands on the window and the now white world beyond. "Sugar," he announces excitedly. "Sugar outside!" He's jumping up and down again.

Mummy finally throws her covers back. "Time to get up, Rodger," she says, nudging Father's shoulder. He sighs but opens his eyes. Mummy throws her legs over the edge of the bed. She aims for her slippers but one foot lands on me. "Oh!" she exclaims, before looking down and seeing me. She moves her foot and picks me up, brushes me down. "Sherlock, what is Teddy doing over here?"

"Up," he explains and apparently that's enough.

"We don't need an alarm clock at this rate," Father moans, now up and walking over to the on-suite bathroom in his pyjamas.

"Hm," Mummy agrees, "he's a good time-keeper – I will give him that."

She puts her feet into her slippers and brings me over to the cot. Sherlock takes me into his arms and gives me a brief hug before setting me down again on the blanket. He points with a chubby finger at the window. "Sugar," he tells Mummy.

She turns to look. "Ah…" she says. "That's not sugar, Sherlock."

He tilts his head. "No?" he asks.

"That, outside," explains she, waving a hand, "is snow."

Sherlock repeats incorrectly, "Isnow."

Mummy chuckles. "Snow," she says again slowly, careful to pronounce the word correctly. Sherlock, I find, is constantly absorbing information, which is only natural I suppose. One way he has of gathering information is poking things – Mummy had to spend an entire afternoon Sherlock-proofing every room in the house.

"Snow!" Father echoes, emerging from the bathroom. "Speaking of, I'm sure Martha won't be able to make it in today. I'd better go and wake Mycroft." He leaves to do just that.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has been thinking, listening to and absorbing every word his parents have been saying. "_Snow_," he declares, determined to be right this time.

Mummy claps her hands together and grins. "That's it, sweetheart!"

"Snow!"

"Yes."

"Mycroot!" Sherlock tries, before: "Mycroft!" He can hear Mycroft running along the corridor and so can I. Mummy looks up at the door in time to see the older boy run through.

"Mummy, I—" he begins, but is cut off by Father entering the room.

"Let me have a guess, Mycroft," he says. "It is a few days until Christmas, nothing urgent has happened recently which is causing a concern for the British nation and there's a blanket of snow outside. You want to… hoover the sitting room?"

"No!" Mycroft says quickly. "I was suggesting that maybe we could… play in the snow? A bit."

"Oh, well I'm afraid that I've still got work to do," his father replies and Mycroft's face minutely falls, "…but, I haven't spent much time with you all lately so I suppose I owe you all a morning." Mycroft fails to hide his grin. "So, breakfast or snow first?"

"Snow!"

"Snow!" agrees Sherlock.

"Rosalie?" Father asks.

Mummy bites her lip in mock thought. Eventually she nods and says, "Snow sounds good to me."

* * *

><p>Father is what I would call a traditionalist – he lets Mummy and the other women he employs deal with things like cooking and housework and looking after children while he does long hours of work in an unidentified job with long hours and excellent pay – but if he's in the right mood, then he can manage being the family man (though he still can't cook).<p>

This morning as he makes sure Mycroft's hat is fixed securely on his head, I can see in his eyes the love that he has for his family, whatever way he happens to show it. I also think that if he had to look after us all on his own he may begin to struggle. He is only the family man when he _wants_ to be, and he especially wants to be when it's been snowing.

He ties Mycroft's tie around his neck neatly and says, "You're ready to go." He pulls his own woollen hat down further onto his head and pulls on some gloves. "Actually, Mycroft – gloves?"

"I can't make a snowman with gloves on, Father, it'll be all messy."

Father picks up a pair of gloves from the kitchen table and hands them to Mycroft anyway. "Stick those into your coat's pockets, OK?"

"OK."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the kitchen…

"Sherlock, stop that!" Mummy says again. She's put a scarf around Sherlock's neck but he's having none of it and insists that I have it instead.

"But Teddy cold," he insists stubbornly.

"You'll be cold in a minute so you need a scarf to keep your neck warm…" She trails off as Sherlock pulls off his woolly hat and places it awkwardly on my head. The hat is too big and only covers one ear properly. She sighs, giving in. "Rodger, do we have a spare hat and scarf for Sherlock?" she calls across the room.

"Erm…" is the reply. "Oh no, wait – we do. Why?"

Mummy explains, matter-of-factly, "Sherlock doesn't want Teddy to get a cold." Mycroft's gaze flicks to me in my hat and scarf and he grins.

There is a pause from Father, who knows the least about Sherlock's antics. "The… the bear?"

"Yes, the bear!"

"Alright," Father says, nodding. "Give me a minute." He leaves and we hear some banging and crashing before he comes back into the kitchen carrying a red hat and matching scarf. Mummy takes them from him and left with no bears to put them on, Sherlock doesn't fiddle with them.

* * *

><p>We go out via the kitchen door. Because it is the first time he's seen snow, Sherlock is led out first by Mummy. Sherlock has me by the paw and I'm hanging by his side while his other arm is being held by Mummy since his walking can be wobbly sometimes.<p>

Father and Mycroft are waiting just behind us since we're blocking the doorway and Sherlock turns and says to them, "Snow!"

"Is there, Sherlock?" asks Father. "I didn't notice." He spots me in Sherlock's hand and says, "Maybe you should leave the bear inside. He's not waterproof and you don't want him ruined."

Sherlock ponders this. "You," he orders, "Teddy." He hands me to father who looks a little surprised.

"Can we not leave him on the table?" Father tries.

"No," he emphasizes. Mummy and Father exchange looks; Mummy shrugs.

With me safely tucked under Father's armpit, Sherlock seems satisfied. He turns his attention back to the snow. It's about two inches deep and covers almost everything, but now as the warm winter sun is rising it will soon begin to melt.

Sherlock stomps his feet in his little boots. He makes a little splodge-like footprint where all of his prints have merged together. He stares at it. He takes a step forwards and turns around to marvel at the shape. True to form, he pokes it. In a sudden burst of energy he starts to run and Mycroft pretends that it's a race and runs out after him, soon overtaking. The pair giggle and come to a stop.

Mycroft claps his hands together and Sherlock automatically copies him. "Snowman time," Mycroft announces.

I am transferred from Father to Mummy. Mummy holds me by the paw and we watch as gradually a pile of snow begins to form in the snow. Mycroft is trying to make snowballs, but the snow isn't sticky enough so the plan is falling flat. Father is also trying to make snowballs by compacting snow in his hands. But the snow just turns to a ball of slush and he has to drop it.

Sherlock has climbed onto their pile of snow. It isn't very high and he's just sitting there, making shapes with his finger. Father spies him and he watches for a few moments. Sherlock pokes holes into the snow. "That gives me an idea," Father says.

Mycroft looks up from his snowball-turned-slush ball, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Why don't we make a snow Sherlock? I mean, we could carve into the pile that we've managed to make… Sherlock as a baby, maybe?"

Mycroft nods, "Sounds good to me." He shoos Sherlock off the snow pile and the toddler seems perfectly content to thoroughly examine the snow around the pile rather than on it.


	5. A Splash of Colour

It is a cold and miserable afternoon, even by a teddy bear's standards. The fog has descended over the three storey house which I call home and everyone is huddled into the living room. Mycroft's nose is buried in a book, Mummy's eyes are drooping as she tries to watch the news on television and Sherlock is being kept entertained by arranging his toys into order by size (apparently I'm not included in his row of toys so I must assume that I'm supposed to be helping him). Indeed, once he's placed his plastic lion key fob and ring at the smaller end, he gets to his feet and stands back.

He grins triumphantly at his effort but it soon descends into a frown. There is light snoring coming from Mummy now and I am pleased to hear it: she needs a rest. Sherlock is still frowning. "Hmm…" he mumbles his newfound word and what he now says when he's thinking. Then another relatively new word: "Bored." He picks me up by the paw and takes us away from the living room. I notice Mycroft's eyes flick from his book to us for just a moment before my vision is obscured by a door.

Sherlock does four laps of the house before an idea seems to pop into his head and he makes his way to the kitchen. It's a Sunday so I'm surprised to find the kitchen devoid of Cook. Sherlock doesn't seem to share in my surprise. He sets me down on a kitchen chair so I can observe and says, with a finger to his lips, "Shh, Teddy."

He toddles over to a low cupboard. He opens it to reveal sauces in bottles. He shakes his head to himself and moves on to the next. This one has pots and pans neatly stacked, and again he shakes his head and closes the door. He keeps going in this fashion all the way around the room before he finally finds what he must have been looking for. He comes back into view grinning and holding a paint can up for me to see. Oh, no…

If there is one thing a teddy bear hates more than rain or mud, it is paint. It sticks everywhere and clogs fur and it's really difficult to remove. Not that I wish to ruin his fun, but I would prefer that he put the paint back. I try to tell him so, but he's already picked me up and we're in the dining room before I can blink. The can swings by Sherlock's side as he walks and I notice to my horror that the lid is loose – Sherlock is going to have no problem opening it.

He sits down just beside the grand and probably ancient and undoubtedly valuable dining room table. He has me on one side and the can of paint on the other. He reaches for the can and easily takes the lid off. Paint comes away on his hand, a bright yellow, and he sets the lid down on the floor and I know that there will be a ring of paint left behind when it is lifted again.

Sherlock gets to his feet and stands over the paint can before dipping his hand into it. He runs around the dining table with his hand to the floor and he leaves a trail behind him. Then he spots a bare spot on the wall and carries the can over (thankfully he leaves me where I am) and dips his hand into the paint again, giving the liquid a good mix.

Then he starts to draw on the wall. The walls are cream in colour so the yellow is hardly striking, but that's not what I'm worrying about right now. With smooth movements of his right hand he soon has what looks like the ripples of the ocean on the wall. He dips his hand again before moving on to the boat and sails. He adds a few seagulls and a stick man to the boat and stands back to admire his handiwork.

We hear footsteps approach and Sherlock turns and runs, picking me up with his yellow hand as he passes. As I feared, the paint clogs my fur and makes his hand stick to my tummy. He slips through the door and into the kitchen. Here he pauses momentarily, scanning for a decent exit. He chooses the kitchen door that leads to the garden. There are running footsteps behind us now and so Sherlock breaks into the fastest run that he can manage.

My day gets a whole lot worse as we run along the garden path before ducking behind a thick tree. It is cold out here in the garden, wet and muddy, and Sherlock sets me down beside him. He places his yellow palm over my muzzle and leans close. "Mycroft's following us – we have to be quiet," he whispers into my ear.

We hear the kitchen door open and close, then running on wet grass. Sherlock is about to get up and find us a better place to hide but before he can a hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up to see Mycroft looking down at him, shaking his head. I would have expected shouting, anger, rage, but Mycroft simply leads Sherlock by the clean hand into the house and I am taken in Mycroft's other hand.

Somehow the silence, the expressionless face, is even scarier.

Once we are back in the warm kitchen, Sherlock's big brother sets him down on a chair and holds me up for Sherlock to see. From my new perspective I can see the mud on Sherlock's trousers and the drying paint on his hands and face, his red ears and nose from the cold. Mycroft says, like a confession or a secret, "This bear, Teddy… means a lot to me. I want you to promise me that you'll look after him, OK?"

Sherlock doesn't make eye contact but nods, "OK."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Good. Now go and find Nanny and get her to clean you up," instructs Mycroft. "I'll try to clean the mess you made in the dining room before Mummy wakes up."

He sniffs, but Sherlock does as he's told and skulks off, his gaze firmly on the floor.

Once his attention-seeking little brother is out of sight, Mycroft gives me an inspection. Paint around my middle, on my nose and on one of my paws, plus the added bonus of mud on my legs. He takes me into a small and narrow room and puts me into some sort of shiny metal box with a round door. He tuts and closes the door before pushing a few buttons.

The world begins to spin.

* * *

><p>As the world spins I lose track of time. I see a blurred figure through the distorted glass joined soon after by another. The figures are watching me and it's only when the spinning stops that I realise who the figures are: Sherlock and Mycroft, both watching with poorly concealed worried faces.<p> 


	6. Grief

Life, everyone knows, is a precious thing. Every living creature knows its value even if they choose to ignore it. Those who have life cling onto it with all of their might.

Just as a lost little boy clings onto his teddy bear.

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't understand."<em>

_The voice is small, lost and oh, so quiet but Mycroft hears it anyway._

_He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to coat the whole situation in sugar and tell it to his little brother again. He doesn't believe the words that come out of his mouth when he says them so what's the point? He knows Sherlock heard him the first time around so he knows the words sank in. He frowns into his soft pillow, the words 'Go away, Sherlock' on his lips but he'll have to roll over to say them. He waits for a few seconds – and then a few more – before he rolls over to face his brother._

_But the words die on his lips before they can be said. His little brother has never looked so lost before. He's so small and skinny, hidden depths of intelligence in his grey-blue eyes even at this age. More innocence lost in this day alone than should be possible. He's in his pyjamas, uncovered toes digging anxiously into the soft carpet, and of course ever-present Teddy handing by his side._

_Mycroft feels a stab of pity for he still remembers what it was like to be Sherlock's age and he is selfishly grateful that he didn't have to go through this at such a young age._

"_Why did you lie to me?" Sherlock asks from the doorway, the question taking Mycroft by surprise._

_Mycroft props himself up on his elbows, the closest his little brother will ever get to having his full and undivided attention. "Pardon?" He heard perfectly well but doesn't want to acknowledge the accusation._

_Sherlock continues as if Mycroft didn't ask, "Mummy didn't go to heaven."_

"_Of course she did." A fake smile, quirk of the lips. He's trying, because Sherlock needs something to hold onto that isn't just a plush bear – he needs hope. Mycroft wants his little brother to be in one piece come the morning, and the morning after that as well._

_But Sherlock doesn't fall for it. "Dead people, they go into the ground," he says and Mycroft knows the battle is lost. So he doesn't answer, lets an increasingly uncomfortable silence fall between them._

* * *

><p>Sherlock holds onto my paw like it's a lifeline, which for him right now it probably is. He turns to leave Mycroft's room. "Sherlock..." Mycroft says, hidden desperation in his voice, a crack of disappointment, but there is no answer and Sherlock doesn't stop.<p>

* * *

><p><em>He's staring at a page. Words, numbers, symbols; they all blur together into a mess. He wipes a single tear from his eye, irritated. He doesn't cry, shouldn't, hasn't cried yet and hopefully never will. He can be strong.<em>

I need another nanny_, he thinks. He can't look after a house of this size and two children with just the part-time staff he has now. He's shaking. His pen taps against the desk without him realising, leaves smudges all over his work. The work was a bad idea. But he wants to get away, bury himself in it. It's familiar, stable in its own way._

_The room is too dark – the only light in the room that he's using is the small desk lamp – so he gets up. Walks over to the light switch which is beside the door, looks down –_

"_Why are you still up?" he asks, in a tone harsher than intended but it's been a long day so he has an excuse. He opens the door with one hand and flicks the light switch on with the other. Sherlock looks back up at him, teddy bear hugged close to his chest._

"_I... can I have a book?" Sherlock says, glancing past him at the shelves._

_Rodger doesn't move. "No. Go to bed."_

"_But__—__" the four-year-old begins, only to be cut off._

"Sherlock_, go to bed. _Now_!" Sherlock stares back at him for a moment in what could be shock, before nodding and turning on his heel. He shuffles in his bare feet dreadfully slowly so Rodger huffs and grabs him by the wrist and leads him up the stairs and to his bedroom. The boy doesn't protest to the manhandling. He doesn't get tucked in. He's old enough – he can do that himself._

_He's back in his study within five minutes. He numbly sits down in front of the very important page which he must have reviewed by morning. He gazes at it for an immeasurable amount of time – it could be anything from a minute to an hour. He may be sitting in his study but his mind is far, far away; lost in memories which are stuck on a loop. He's thinking about a person who he has lost today, someone who he held dear even though he wasn't the best at showing it most of the time. If he closes his eyes he can see her face – every little detail – and it kills him._

_There is only one way to erase memories, ones that are too painful to keep on the surface. A braver man may grin and bear it, but Rodger Holmes never proclaimed to be a brave man. He's a coward and he's aware of it._

_He reaches down and in one of his desk drawers is a bottle, almost half-empty, of brandy. There is a glass tumbler too and he pulls both out, shoves the paper aside to make room for them on his desk. He pours himself enough brandy to fill the tumbler but doesn't pretend that that will be enough and so leaves the bottle well within reach._

_He takes huge gulps of the liquid, not caring if anyone's watching. The jagged edges of the painful memories soften as he drains the rest._

Perhaps another one, just to take the edge off... _he thinks, before pouring himself another generous brandy._

* * *

><p>There is something about teddy bears that makes people want to talk to them. Perhaps it is their neutral expressions – they won't judge you. Perhaps it is because they actually listen.<p>

Sherlock has pulled the covers over us the best that he can with short arms and is hugging me close. The room around is big and dark and empty. Then, into my ear as if it is the greatest secret he has, with a voice too thick and heavy for a boy of his age, three simple words that I shall never, ever forget:

"I miss Mummy."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** It hurt my emotions to write this. But the story must move on and so something had to change. If Sherlock and Mycroft's childhoods continued on the path that I had set then I don't think they would have turned out the way they did. Also for this chapter I wanted to try something a little different, hence the POV changes in italics. And another thing (and I promise, this is the last one) – 17 reviews? For 5 chapters? Wow. This is my most popular story ever. Thank you all so much!


	7. Beetles

"Sherlock..." It's Mycroft's voice, taking on its mature tone which is probably his attempt at trying to sound intimidating. Being intimidating to Sherlock doesn't work when there's a door between yourself and Sherlock.

From my position of safety on the dresser in Sherlock's room – I am grateful for Sherlock to consider me before he lets the beetles out of the jar so they can run around the floor and he can see where they go – I watch as Sherlock lies on his tummy and tries to see where one of his beetles went.

Sherlock flaps a hand in the door's direction even though his brother can't see him and says in a bored tone, "Go away, Mycroft." He strains with his arm under the wardrobe as far as it can go but he still smirks when Mycroft sighs outside.

"Father wants us to get ready for tea, Sherlock. We need to look our best for when Granny Holmes comes to visit!" Mycroft tries the door handle again but finds that it is just as locked as it was several minutes ago. He growls in frustration. "Since when have you been so stubborn?"

"August of '82," Sherlock recites as if he's said it many times before. "Ah," he breathes quietly, extracting his arm from underneath the wardrobe. In his clutched hand must be one of his runaway beetles. He winks at me and sticks the little black beetle into his trouser pocket. Says loud enough for Mycroft to hear, "Now run off and play with your books or something."

"Granny Holmes is coming in half an hour and you need to get ready."

"I don't like Granny Holmes. Or Father. Why would I wish to waste an evening in the same room as them?" It is asked as a genuine question. Before Mycroft can even attempt to form an answer, he continues, "Father drinks too much, Granny Holmes wants him to quit and so all she's going to be doing this evening is nagging into his ear about responsibilities. You like that sort of thing, Mycroft; you can listen to it if you want to." He gets to his feet and picks up the empty jar and begins to round up all visible beetles.

I hear Mycroft take a deep breath behind the door. "If Mummy could see you now—"

Sherlock tenses but does his best to hide it. "If _you_ could see me now," he quickly corrects, "you'd not bother playing the 'Mummy card'. It's old and tattered and I wish you'd just stop trying. Frankly, I don't care."

There is silence from behind the wooden door; a tense, stunned silence. It lasts for almost a minute. Sherlock continues collecting beetles from underneath boxes and underneath the bed and from inside shoes, seemingly oblivious. He counts the beetles in the jar quietly, "...Seven, eight... nine." He taps his pocket gently. "Ten."

He sets the jar on the dressing table beside me and turns me so that I have no choice but to watch them which is certainly not what I want to do but I don't have much choice in the matter. "Look after those," he says and it's the first words he's spoken to me all day. He then turns and takes his time walking across the room and to the door. He turns the lock tab and it clicks open.

He opens the door quietly to reveal a stony-faced Mycroft. "You don't have to say it. I know _you_ care." He brushes past his big brother. "Nice suit. I'll just go and wash up for Granny Holmes and Father. We have to look our best for them," he says lightly, swinging his long arms as he saunters away down the hall and out of my sight, "isn't that right, _brother dear_?"

Mycroft narrows his eyes and clenches his fists at Sherlock's sudden change of heart, but he turns and marches along the hall in the opposite direction, slamming the door to Sherlock's room shut before he goes.

* * *

><p>I watch the nine beetles as they scuttle around in circles, around and around, some even go over each other. Sherlock left a leaf in the bottom of the jar for them to keep them entertained as much as a beetle can be entertained. The sun has almost set outside the window when I hear the front door open and Granny Holmes' distinctive voice drift up the staircase.<p>

* * *

><p>At around seven I discover that Granny Holmes' scream is as distinctive as her voice.<p>

* * *

><p>When Sherlock storms back into his room he is preceded by a lot of shouting downstairs and followed by Mycroft. Sherlock flops down onto his bed and sniggers. Mycroft deliberately stands just inside the doorway on usually forbidden territory, the light from the hall silhouetting him. He reaches over with one hand to flick on the bedroom light.<p>

Sherlock sniggers some more as he undoes the knot of his tie and unbuttons his shirt's top button. Mycroft glares. There is no trace of humour on his face whatsoever.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft!" Sherlock says. "You have to admit that it was funny." He giggles before he can stop himself.

"You put a beetle in Granny Holmes' trifle!"

"The old hag deserved it. You saw the look on her face."

"I did," Mycroft replies and there is a tiny flash of a smile before he sobers and his face goes blank again. I can see that Sherlock noticed it.

He regards his big brother. "What happened to you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft frowns. "I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock sits up on the bed and drops his tie to the floor. "I mean, you used to be so much fun," he elaborates. "You never laugh any more. Where has all of the fun gone, Mycroft?" Sherlock throws his head back and laughs, unable to hold it in any more.

Mycroft doesn't answer. Instead he smiles; a true smile. He watches his brother for a few seconds before he starts laughing as well. It's such a rare sound that it catches Sherlock and I by surprise. "I – I suppose..." he says through his rediscovered humour, "the old bag did deserve it. Goodnight, Sherlock." He turns and walks away, chuckling quietly to himself as he goes.


	8. Too Old For Bears

**Warning:** Mild swear word in here, but nothing worth a T rating so you're quite safe.

* * *

><p><em>Seven's too old for bears.<em>

* * *

><p>The woman smelled of expensive perfume. She had placed me in a carrier bag in the car's front seat so I could only make out a few muted colours from the world outside through the thin plastic. It had been a long journey already and the sky had turned from grey to blue and now to a pale orange. She had the car's radio on but I wasn't listening, just thinking. Bears do a lot of thinking. A song came on that she must have known for she started to sing along to the words; out of tune, but that's not really the point is it?<p>

The car slowed and came to a stop. The sky was a deep red now. The woman I was with picked up my bag by the handles and then reached into the back seat for her brown leather briefcase. She locked the car's door and the briefcase thudded gently against my plastic bag as she walked into what looked like a big house. She set me in my bag down beside the briefcase once in the warmth of the hallway and took off her coat.

She reached down and pulled me out of the bag. She tried pulling my label off but it was a little plastic one and so it didn't budge. She tried nipping it with her teeth but that didn't work either. She sighed and carried me into an office – a big, brown room with two tall windows and lots of books. It was dark, but not dark enough for her to need a light to see. She rooted around in a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. My label came loose with a satisfying _snip_.

The woman straightened my ear again and threw the label into the bin beside the desk. She held me up by the waist with both hands so that I was looking into her blue eyes. "We have to have you looking presentable, don't we?" She smoothed down a few more rough patches of fur, polished my nose with her sleeve.

"Mrs Holmes, that you back?" came a voice from the hallway outside, and the light there was switched on.

"Yes, it is," said Mrs Holmes. "Hello, Ness. I'm in the office."

Another woman appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in black with an apron around her waist. She had a round face with a few laughter lines and greying hair. "What're you doing in 'ere? In the dark an' all," she muttered, reaching over to flick on the light. "Oh, that's a nice bear you got there," she said when she saw me. She pottered across the room and pulled the curtain across over the two tall windows. Mrs Holmes watched her. "I was just about to leave for the day, just makin' sure all the curtains are pulled. How was Ireland?"

Mrs Holmes hesitated for a moment. "I delivered the documents." Ness straightened papers on the desk.

"Good. That was the idea, weren't it? I'll be off if you don't mind, Mrs Holmes, it's getting dark and I don't have a torch with me to walk home with. I'll see you in the morning."

Ness was halfway out of the office door before Mrs Holmes called, "Is Mycroft asleep, then?"

"I only tucked 'im in ten minutes ago. He might still be awake but you can never be sure." Then she was gone.

Mrs Holmes turned off the light in the office and quietly walked up the stairs. She stopped outside a door and slowly turned the knob. It was old and creaky and she winced a little at every sound. She gently pushed the door open inch by inch. The beam of light from the hall landed on a bed with a mop of dark ginger hair peeking up from underneath the sheets. "Mycroft?" she whispered, checking if the boy was awake.

There was no reply from under the blankets and Mrs Holmes crept closer. The fact that Mycroft had a long nose was the first thing I noticed about him. Mrs Holmes smiled at his ruffled hair and pushed me into bed beside Mycroft's shoulder. It was nice and warm under the covers. Mrs Holmes bent down and gave Mycroft a light kiss on the forehead and said quietly, "Night-night, Mycroft."

She left as quietly as she came and I listened to Mycroft's breathing as the night's darkness fully settled in and he began to snore.

* * *

><p><em>I'm not seven!<em>

* * *

><p>Sherlock held me by the paw as he toddled along the hall. My tail was trailing along the carpet but there was little I could do to complain.<p>

I could hear the voices of Mycroft and a pair of his school friends downstairs. It was Mycroft's eleventh birthday in a couple of days but his friends had come over today because his birthday landed on a Sunday. It suited all parties involved to have the get-together today. We heard the front door close behind them as they went outside, going to play football no doubt.

My friend Sherlock had sneaked off shortly after the two boys had arrived without a word. He always felt nervous around new people and his grip always tightened on my paw. The boys and Mycroft were talking about the birthday cake that Cook was baking before Sherlock left.

Sherlock took me into Mycroft's room (he paid little attention to the idea of another human being's private space at this tender age) and set me on the edge of the bed before trying to scramble up onto the covers himself. He frowned when he found that he couldn't. Mycroft's bed was a tall as a grown-up's. So I was brought back down to ground level, and Sherlock set me against the side of the bed, facing the door. Sherlock sat opposite me with his legs crossed.

He looked at me for a minute before saying, "Do you think Mycroft would let me have some of his cake? I'd like that. A lot. It should have that white, sticky stuff on it. It gets on your fingers and makes them all sticky. And then... and then I could stick paper on you, Teddy, so you look like a sticky pirate with white, sticky stuff. And the cake – that should have those colours on it. Those little balls that get everywhere and are crunchy. I'd like to flick those – that would be funny, Teddy."

I saw movement behind Sherlock; Mycroft was listening through the crack in the door.

"Jam, there should be lots and lots of jam," Sherlock went on, oblivious. "I like jam, do you, Teddy? Bears eat honey I suppose, not jam. But I like jam bestest. There should be jam in the cake. Strawberry or raspberry – or both! Jam is sticky too..."

He waved his arms around in the grip of his youthful enthusiasm.

A few hours after this Mycroft's birthday cake was served to Mycroft, his two friends, Sherlock and I. We sat around the smaller dining table in the kitchen. Cook started off with placing four piece plates in front of the table's occupants. Sherlock frowned at this and mustered up his courage to say simply, "Teddy."

Mycroft failed to hide a small smile. Cook stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment before realising what he meant and so she fetched an extra plate. As she set it down in front of me she ruffled Sherlock's curly hair and he squirmed.

"All right then, boys and... just boys," Cook said, "and Teddy too..." She bustled from the kitchen, only to return moments later with a huge, freshly baked and decorated cake. "...Cake time!"

Much to my surprise and Sherlock's delight, the cake was exactly how Sherlock had described it. It had three tiers, each separated by a layer of jam – I could tell by the colours that they were strawberry and raspberry. On top was snow white icing with hundreds and thousands sprinkled on it.

Cook set the cake down on the table in the centre. By that point Sherlock was practically bouncing in his seat. The cake had been pre-cut but the eleven candles were still lit.

"Make a wish, Mycroft!" said one of his friends eagerly.

"Yeah!" agreed the other.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment while everyone else's attention was riveted to the cake. When he opened them he reached across the table and blew out eight of the elven candles in one breath. He looked disgruntled by this and was about to try again when Sherlock finally lost his patience and blew the remaining candles out himself with a massive huff.

He looked pleased with himself. Cook chuckled, serving the birthday boy first, then Mycroft's two friends, Sherlock and finally me.

"Happy birthday, Mycroft," everyone except Sherlock chimed together. Sherlock was too busy stuffing his face to speak.

It didn't escape my notice that Mycroft picked at his cake. Then again, he never did like strawberry jam.

* * *

><p><em>No, you're not – you're bloody eight! That's even worse.<em>

* * *

><p>Before you go, you remember things like that; little snippets from your life, things that stuck out for you when times were better. Times have certainly been better for me. Presently I am in a black bin bag, destined for the landfills of Great Britain. I've been here for a good few hours now (it's dark and I haven't been able to count the minutes), ever since Sherlock and Mycroft's Father staggered into Sherlock's room this evening for a 'toy clear-out'. Sherlock protested, of course he did, but it was only half-heartedly. Mycroft wasn't there to watch his back. Sherlock knew about the layer of dust on my head, nose and shoulders just as well as I did. Anyhow, it would have been a lost cause to argue with Father when he smelled of brandy like that.<p>

It's cold in the bin and some of Sherlock's _Lego_ bricks are digging into my side. It smells bad here too. I want out. Some of the dust from my head has migrated to my eye. I can feel it but I can't see it. There's an _Action Man_ in here somewhere, one of Mycroft's which Sherlock broke. But it's so cold. Cold, cold – and black. It's like one of Mycroft's old stories that he used to read to me in the office. I can't remember which one now – was that happiness really so many years ago?

The worst of it all is that when Father grabbed me by the ear, like he always used to do, he tore the stitches holding it in place. Now it's on the floor in Sherlock's room. I'll never get my ear back again.

But I've been lucky up until this point, I suppose. Some bears only have one true friend in their lifetimes. I've had two.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And the readers, how they sobbed... :) This wins the award for longest chapter – it's my gift to you all for reading along with Teddy's adventures. Thanks very much for the reviews; once I post a new chapter I'm checking my email inbox every five minutes. But it's worth it to hear your kind words and pointers. And is this the end? Well, keep your eyes peeled and there may be more... I mean, I can't just leave Teddy to his fate – can I?


	9. Crying for Help Silently

**A/N: **...What happened there? Suddenly my email inbox was piling up with reviews begging me to let Teddy live. I'll be honest and say that I was planning on leaving it there, but you readers have all successfully changed my mind. But we are nearing the end now, I'm sad to say. I'll miss Teddy. Thanks again for reading this story, folks. Reviews, alerts and favourites are appreciated greatly.

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft likes to study in the library. Unlike some places he could mention, it is devoid of little Sherlocks who would want to disturb him or ask stupid questions, or slightly bigger Sherlocks who would want to argue about something and anything. But in a library it is nice and quiet. Sherlock never comes here and that is just the way Mycroft likes it.<em>

_He chooses a book relevant to the subject he is trying to brush up on – maths this time – and searches for a free desk. The desks here are square and brightly-coloured. Each one is surrounded by shelves of books so no one can see what you're up to. He finds the perfect desk, a bright yellow one, and sits down on a plastic chair of a matching yellow that is a little too small for him. It's not like at home, where all of the chairs are huge and wooden and varnished to within an inch of their lives._

_He opens the book. Flicks to a page with a set of simple-to-Mycroft equations on it. Pulls out the maths jotter he uses in school. When he was in primary school and Mummy was still alive, she'd replace the wrapping paper once it became too dog-eared. Mycroft has no time for such a trivial thing; he wraps his jotters in September and from then on it's a race to find out which jotter loses its cover first. The black and blue wrapping paper on his maths jotter has already fallen off for the most part. He realises he's been staring at his jotter for too long and sets it on the desk._

_He has a biro in his hand, the nib about to make contact the jotter's page, when there is a commotion from the direction of the library's entrance. There are raised voices but no indistinct words._

_That isn't right. Sherlock never comes here._

_Mycroft reluctantly gets up and weaves his way through the shelves of tomes. For Sherlock to be here, something terrible must have happened at home. He isn't like Mycroft; he doesn't keep working after school finishes so he has no reason to be here. He never comes._

_He reaches the sliding door at the entrance and all he can see outside is the traffic and pedestrians; inside there is no sign of Sherlock. Okay, on a second glace the librarian looks a little flustered. Mycroft casually leans on the desk with elbows. The librarian has her back to him but he can see that she's frantically writing down ISBN numbers. Mycroft clears his throat and she hits the low ceiling with the top of her head, startled._

"_Oh – sorry, Mycroft, you made me jump," she says, rubbing her head and putting her hair out of place. She doesn't appear to notice. "Is something the matter?"_

"_Yes... I was wondering if you'd seen a boy of about this height –" he holds his palm parallel to the floor and indicates an approximate height, deliberately shorter, of course – "with curly, brown hair. Noisy fellow with bright eyes and a pale complexion. You wouldn't have seen him in here before."_

_She nods. Says, "There was a boy in here like – like that just a moment ago. He ran off in that direction, towards the science section. The commotion was me trying to – to stop him." She points as if Mycroft doesn't already know the layout of the library by heart._

_Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment and sighs, "He bit you." The red semi-circular mark on her hand cannot be hidden easily._

"_Yes... It – it doesn't matter." She rubs at the mark subconsciously._

"_It does. I had hoped that my brother had grown out of such childish forms of self-defence__—__"_

_The librarian interrupts in a state of shock, "Brother?"_

"—_by now. Kindly give me your name and address and I'll have the compensation in your account by this time tomorrow," Mycroft finishes. Father doesn't have to know about this, or what happened to the home economics teacher for that matter._

"_You never told me you had a brother, Mycroft." Mycroft doesn't answer her._

"_I'll pick up your name and address on my way out then, shall I?" He turns to go and find his pesky little brother but catches himself. "Oh, and apologies in advance for any raised voices."_

_He starts in the science section first, but already knows before he reaches it that his brother will have moved on; he travels at such a speed that it would be difficult for even the swiftest of athletes to keep up. The table is brown this time, with little fossils painted on it for the younger children to marvel at. Mycroft is certain that his little brother falls into this category. He smirks a little at the thought._

_When his brother is upset about something he either turns petulant or destructive – sometimes a combination of both. And more often than not Mycroft is caught in the crossfire and has to pick up the pieces. When he has passed the books on English literature and language he reaches the section for all things numeric. His brother is seated at the bright yellow table with Mycroft's biro in one hand as he scribbles in Mycroft's jotter. Mycroft creeps up from behind to peer over his brother's slender shoulder._

"_Are you going to tell me why you are here, Sherlock?" asks Mycroft and as expected there is no answer. Petulant, then. He gives a long-suffering sigh and tries again, "Has something happened to Father?" Sherlock shakes his head. Mycroft watches as he puts some finishing touches on his doodle of Teddy. Mycroft checks his watch. After six in the evening. "Was he drinking again?" A nod; yes. Sherlock leans back in the chair and Mycroft doesn't move in time and dark curls tickle Mycroft's nose. Seemingly dissatisfied with his drawing, he leans forwards again and starts drawing on an eye patch to give Teddy the appearance of a pirate. It's only when Sherlock starts to colour in the patch that Mycroft protests, "Don't waste the ink. Or my jotter, for that matter." Half of the eye patch complete in blue biro, Sherlock stops and crosses the whole picture out. He rips the page in the process, since he leans so heavily._

"_What are you doing here?" Mycroft repeats, keeping his voice level and gently prising the pen out of his brother's hand. He moves to stand at the side of the table so he can see his little brother's face. "Sherlock?"_

_Sherlock finally looks up then and the two Holmes brothers make eye contact, just for a second. But Sherlock doesn't let anything be seen in his eyes and neither does Mycroft. Sherlock stands up from the table. He runs._

_Mycroft knows exactly where he's going to be so takes his time as he gathers his things back into his schoolbag. Takes a moment to stare at Sherlock's crossed-out drawing. The symbolism is painfully obvious._

_He picks up the librarian's address on the way out._


	10. All the Fears of All the Years

The bin suddenly shakes as the lid is flipped open. Hands close around my black, plastic prison and lift it out. Set it on the ground and fiddle with the knot at the top until it's undone. The hands close around my middle and squeeze gently, probably to be certain that it's me. Then I'm lifted from the bag and what a blessed relief it is to see Mycroft peering at me.

He glances up at the windows on the first floor anxiously as if he's afraid he's being watched. Seemingly satisfied that he isn't, he sets me down on the ground for a moment while he ties the knot back onto the bag and sets it back into the bin and flips down the lid.

Mycroft picks me up around my middle again and walks quickly into the house through the back door that leads to the kitchen. His hand is squeezing too tightly but I don't care because I can see again – the little details that Sherlock always goes on about – I can see them all. How many freckles Mycroft has: fifty-seven. He has a callus on his right middle finger from writing a lot. Blue biro pen judging by the faint ink stains on his fingertips and palm. Oh, no wonder Sherlock loves this. I feel positively giddy.

We pass Father's office and as the door is slightly ajar I see him snoring at his desk; we creep silently onwards so as not to disturb him. I want to feel angry with him but I can't bring myself to. He's just another grown-up – deluded as they all are when it comes to something like toys and how old their children should be when they part with them. It's a flexible thing, growing up. As a bear I watch it happen all of the time. There are no hard and fast rules. So I'm not angry with him, but I am scared of him for the exact same reason.

The main reception area is as big and grand as it was when I last saw it. I don't know why I expect there to be something different about this building since I've only been in the bin for a few hours at most. But I haven't been downstairs in almost six months. A house that is lived in becomes a home and a home is always changing. But now with Nanny gone Father just hires an anonymous cleaner once a month. I heard her pottering about when I was gathering dust in Sherlock's room. When she was vacuuming she was careful not to move anything in the rooms. It's like this house is frozen in time now; like the real flowers in the vase beside the coat rack that are now replaced with plastic ones that will never die.

None of the three people who live here really live here at all, I see that now.

Father lives in his office. He eats there – ready meals or a Chinese takeaway on a good night, his bedroom that he once shared with Mummy is abandoned so Father has moved a fold-away bed down into his office. He spends time abroad too, leaving suddenly with a "Look after the house, Mycroft," thrown over his shoulder.

Mycroft retreats to the library for a few hours after school every day just because it offers him peace and quiet. He stops at a little coffee shop on his way home and gets his tea. If he's in a good mood he'll bring something home with him for Sherlock. He buries his nose in knowledge so he can achieve more and more and more.

Sherlock, when he's not at school, retreats into his own mind. It's a glorious place, he tells me, all organised into rooms with different colours of paint on the walls allocated to different topics. He does his homework sitting on his bed with his legs crossed. Homework doesn't take Sherlock very long. And if he's hungry he'll either have the doughnut that Mycroft brought home with him that day or he'll go downstairs and have some of Father's takeaway/ready meal leftovers because he always has enough for two. Sherlock spends time in the woods just outside the boundary of the garden. He took me there a few times. There's a stream and towering trees and a bridge that we used to hide under. Sherlock would start pretending to be the troll under the bridge and he would laugh so much when he managed to scare someone...

Mycroft takes me upstairs and I expect him to stop at Sherlock's bedroom door, to knock, and to hand me back to my friend. But instead I look at his face with its fifty-seven freckles and know that he isn't going to do that. For one, Sherlock hasn't talked to me for a good few months now. Two: there's always the threat of Father throwing me into the bin again and I certainly don't want that. But I want to see Sherlock again. I would happily sit on his dresser for the rest of his days, gathering a mountain of dust, if it meant that I didn't have to be in the dark.

We bypass Sherlock's room. Mycroft's is distinctly tidier and even if there was a mess in here I'm sure it would be a tidy one. He hasn't spoken a word to me yet and I know he won't. He chooses to believe that he's too told for bears and there's little I can do to change that. He sets me on his bed and sniffs his hands, grimacing at the odour of bin. Then he chuckles. A little giggle that is threatening to grow louder if he doesn't compose himself.

He plonks down onto the bed beside me and the springs protest. He stares straight ahead and says, "Sentiment." He looks at his hands.

"You're the last tangible thing we have of Mummy now, T... Teddy," he continues, much to my surprise. "Father never sleeps in his room anymore because he's sold the bed. And the jewellery that was Mummy's once, her clothes... Father hasn't worked for months, not really. He still has all of those papers on his desk but those aren't international documents – they're unpaid bills. Months and months of them. He can't afford to feed Sherlock and me, let alone himself. Granny Holmes has been giving us money. Enough to get by. I haven't told Sherlock... I don't think I will either. He's too young to understand. The money we're living on now is our inheritance. That's why I go to the library so much, Teddy, because I need to know as much as I can and be as good as I can or there's no future for us. I just need the money to last until high school ends. Then I'll get a job. A good one..." He trails off, clearly thinking.

He sighs, "I don't know why I told you all of that, Teddy. It's almost as if you can actually understand I word I'm saying." He brings his fingers to rest on my head where my ear used to be. "I suppose you can't even hear me."

A chair rattles downstairs, followed by a crash as it falls down. It is accompanied by a muffled thud as Father hits the ground too. "Mycroft!" he calls, almost loud enough to shake the house itself.

Mycroft picks me up and dashes over to his wardrobe and opens the door.

_Oh, no. I don't want to be in the dark. Never again_.

Mycroft sets me down on the cold wood, beside a pair of his rarely used shoes.

_Please, Mycroft, please don't make me stay here_.

He closes the door and the darkness settles in around me again.

_Please_.

* * *

><p>Waiting, it is what teddy bears do best. When our best friends give us a hug for the first time, we always wait for the next one. We're always ready. We're always waiting. While our best friends sleep in the dark hours, we wait for dawn.<p>

We watch our best friends grow up and we're always waiting for the day when the talking stops, when the dust gathers. We don't give up then. We just wait until we're needed once again.

And we're always needed once again.

It might take days or it might take years. But we wait because it's what we do.

This fact doesn't make the waiting any easier.

* * *

><p>Through the wood I can hear voices sometimes. <em>I'm not a child, Mycroft<em>. _Show me your arm_. _Mummy would be so very upset to hear that you are doing this to yourself_. _Go to Hell_. _You can't just leave like this, Sherlock_. _I don't miss him now and I never will_. _Only some water damage_. _New job in London_. _You're coming with me so I can keep an eye on you_. _Keep your nose out of other people's private lives, Pinocchio_.

* * *

><p>For the eighteen long years after the final voice stills, I spend indistinguishable days and nights listening to the same sound: the creaking of an empty house.<p> 


	11. A Burden to Bear

**Spoilers: **2.3,The Reichenbach Fall.

**A/N: **Okay, so I don't remember if I've mentioned this before or not, but this was originally going to be a 'five times/one time' story. As you can probably tell, it evolved into something much bigger than I expected. But a part of my original plan did go post-Reichenbach, so I'm just getting to that now. So if you haven't seen that episode and wish to avoid spoilers (if you have already, can I just congratulate you? Nearly every story summary on here contains a spoiler of some description), I'm afraid you'll have to make a legal U-turn here. Sorry. For those of you who can keep reading, we're almost at the end. But this story keeps growing. At the moment there should be two more chapters after this one. I'll let you all read on now...

* * *

><p><em>Mycroft still has the key to this house. Too many memories stored within these walls for him to simply throw the key away. He has allowed the garden to grow wild and the house to fall into disrepair. He keeps an eye on it from a distance but that is as far as it goes. It is not his job to look after it; Mycroft has better things to do with his time these days.<em>

_The immaculate, black government car looks very out of place as it makes its way along the cracked tarmac lane and to the old house. Through tinted windows he can see the seeding grass on the lawn. There was a time when Sherlock could have hidden in that grass just to avoid the punishment for whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into. Mycroft doesn't allow himself to hope for that any more._

_A shadow passes over his face as he thinks of his late brother. The situation makes no logical sense to Mycroft whatsoever. He was supposed to die first, of old age if he was lucky, not the other way around. Mycroft shouldn't be going to the place of his eventful childhood and collecting Sherlock's possessions. But he is, and it's slowly ripping him apart from the inside._

_He tries not to let it show, but Anthea knows him well enough by now – she can see the pain behind every faked smile of amusement. The car comes to a stop just outside the door, and Mycroft finds himself staring at it like an awed child. The driver opens the car's door and Mycroft snaps out of it; gathering the scraps of his composure and sticking them down with blu-tack._

_Once out of the car, Mycroft puts up his umbrella. The rain is only starting to fall, but already the house appears to take on a darker shade of grey. The creeping ivy once below the living room window has reached the first floor and Mycroft's old bedroom window. Mycroft holds the umbrella out so Anthea can at least stay dry. She slips her BlackBerry into her pocket._

"_Which way is it to Mister Holmes' room, sir?" she asks. The driver hands her a cardboard box and gets back into the car to wait for them._

"_Not to worry, I'll take you there myself," replies Mycroft. He doesn't know why he said that, he knows he can never set foot in that room again. He'll stand at the door and watch, just like he always did. Yes. He'll do that. He reaches into his jacket pocket for the key. It's a little rusty but then so is the lock. He tries his best to ignore the profanities spray-painted onto the wood by some unknown hooligans. The key sticks but through sheer force of will on Mycroft's part, the lock clicks and the door opens wide. "After you."_

_The plastic flowers in the vase are just how he remembers them, only a little dustier. In fact the rest of the house has taken on a lot of dust in almost twenty years. It has also become eerily quiet, and for once Mycroft finds himself wishing for an argument with his little brother. He could really put up a fight, just not with insane criminal masterminds._

_Anthea peers at him and says, "Sir?" which brings him out of his contemplation._

_Mycroft clears his throat. "Hmm. Sorry. This way," he says, sounding a little distracted. Anthea follows him upstairs and he stops outside Sherlock's door. He allows Anthea to open it. He leans rather heavily on his umbrella._

_Anthea lets out a little gasp when she opens the door and Mycroft's gaze lifts from the old carpet. He suddenly feels sick._

_The room has been completely trashed. The wardrobe knocked over; splinters of wood everywhere and sticking out of the carpet like miniature spears. The same has happened to the table beside the bed, and it looks like it was bashed with a hammer a few times. The lamp's bulb is smashed, as is the bulb for the light. The sheets on the bed have been ripped to shreds as if something with massive claws has swiped it. There are spots of dried blood on the sheets along with random lines of yellow spray paint. The walls too have been spray-painted with squiggles and symbols and words which Mycroft will never be able to forget._

"_Close the door," he says. His voice is distant and sounds wrong. Anthea gets the message and gently closes the door. She places supportive a hand on his shoulder lightly, but the weight of it sends Mycroft to his knees anyway. He hasn't cried yet. He won't start now._

_He uses his umbrella to pull himself upright. "You... you won't find anything in there worth salvaging," he tells Anthea._

_She glances at the box in her hands. "Then what shall we tell Doctor Watson, sir?"_

_Mycroft bites his lip in thought. "Tell him there's nothing left. This is probably some sort of taunt from one of Moriarty's henchmen. Best to ignore it. Actually, I'll tell him. It's my burden to__—__" He pauses, before: "...bear." He allows himself the tiniest of smiles. "Wait here." He briskly walks to his old bedroom door. His room is untouched which is something of a relief. His old wardrobe has a mirror on one door. He looks the same as he always does, but underneath he is more battered and bruised._

_He opens the wardrobe and reaches down. Beside and old pair of shoes is something soft and cuddly. He lifts it out and into the light. The fur is old and the fabric beneath has become stiff with age. But there it – he is: Teddy. Mycroft breathes onto Teddy's nose and gives it a quick polish. He looks at his refection in the black oval and is instantly returned to his childhood when he would watch his lips move as he talked to his beloved teddy bear. His lips are moving now as they say, "Anthea, I've got something. Let's go."_


	12. The Man with the Deerstalker Hat

A teddy bear never, ever forgets a voice. I've been listening; I know who is behind the door before it's opened. As light floods into my eighteen year prison, my eyes naturally take a moment to adjust. My old friend is even taller and broader now than he was before. He swims into sharp focus as he bends down to pick me up. He holds me up to the light; his eyes have dark circles under them and they're sad. He looks sad as he polishes my nose with his sleeve. He breaks out of his little trance and says loudly, "Anthea, I've got something. Let's go."

Mycroft holds me tightly around my waist as he exits his old bedroom. A brunette woman is waiting for him; if she is shocked by the sight of a grown man practically hugging an old bear she doesn't show it. At his nod she starts to descend the grand stairs. Except they're not so grand anymore; they're dusty and the banister has lots of little holes from a woodworm infestation. There're patches of damp on the ceiling. Each step creaks under the weight of two people and a bear.

The garden resembles a meadow. There is a car waiting for us outside, black and shiny and streamlined. It looks expensive, and I realise that's because Mycroft must have finally become a government-person, just like he wanted to be when he was smaller. The thought makes me proud.

Anthea is carrying a cardboard box and she holds it awkwardly as Mycroft locks the doors to his childhood home. "We won't need that," says Mycroft. She nods and puts the box in the boot. Mycroft gets into the car first and then Anthea. She gives her boss an odd look when he places me on his lap, facing him. She pulls out a very small black thing with tiny buttons, like something out of those James Bond films Mycroft used to watch. She prods at it with her thumbs.

Mycroft spends the car journey in a bubble of fuzzy nostalgia. He keeps fiddling with the exposed stuffing where my ear used to be subconsciously. His gaze is out of the window but in reality it's far away, in the past with school and books and Sherlock. I wonder what Sherlock looks like now. He was quite a skinny child – maybe he'll be a skinny adult. Mycroft hasn't really changed that much, actually, so maybe Sherlock won't have changed much either.

Out of the corner of my eye I can watch Anthea and her black thing. It has a light on the front so maybe it's some sort of torch. She keeps casting glances in Mycroft's direction and she looks worried. Why she looks worried, I have no idea.

The car smoothly stops but Mycroft doesn't seem to notice, his eyes still far away in his thoughts. "We're here, sir," says Anthea gently.

Blinking, Mycroft turns to her. "Hmm, it appears so."

"Would you like me to accompany you?" she questions.

"And hold him back should it turn nasty?" he says with a mock chuckle. "No need. I won't be long."

He appears to steel himself before leaving the car smoothly. The rain of before has left the pavements damp and slippery. He doesn't bother putting up his umbrella though and approaches a door. It's black and has a golden '221B' on it. He rings the doorbell. No response. He tries again and even though his finger is on the button for the same length of time it somehow seems harsher.

This time there is a response. "I've got it, Mrs Hudson!" a man shouts as he walks down the stairs. The door opens a crack to reveal a short but toughly built man, with sandy hair and eyes which are just as sad as Mycroft's. "Oh, for God's sake – can't you leave me alone?" he says, glaring at my friend. I take an instant dislike to him. He spots me then in Mycroft's hand and the doctor gives Mycroft an odd look but otherwise does not acknowledge my presence.

Mycroft smiles tightly back, "Good afternoon to you, too, Doctor Watson. But I am not here for my own reasons. May I come in?"

Dr Watson's brown eyes flash with anger for a moment. He takes a deep breath and replies sternly, "You're not welcome – never will be. Bye, Mycroft..." He starts to nudge the door closed but Mycroft is too fast for him and sticks his foot in the gap between the door and the doorframe. Dr Watson sighs. "Move your foot."

"Can I come in... please?" Mycroft tries again, though the 'please' is a forced one but it works.

Suddenly, the fight drains out of out of Dr Watson and his shoulders slump and he looks very tired. "Fine. Fine. Come in..." He stands aside and Mycroft nods to him. Dr Watson follows Mycroft and I up the stairs to a flat. It's cluttered and messy, with a pile of newspapers upon the coffee table which are overflowing onto the floor. It smells funny in here too. There is a sofa and two chairs in the living room, and there is some striking wallpaper on the wall. "Tea?" asks Dr Watson.

"Please."

"Get it yourself then," says Dr Watson, and he picks his way over to a red and comfortable-looking chair. He pointedly doesn't look at the black one. He sits down. "I'll take one too while you're at it."

"Very well, John," nods Mycroft and he moves over to set me down on the coffee table, facing John. Mycroft wanders into the kitchen and flicks on the kettle. The newspapers tell me that the month is July. I'm half-sitting on a picture of someone in a tan deerstalker hat. I can't read the headline, it's been scribbled out.

John leans over from his chair and picks me up. He turns me over in his hands, inspecting every inch of me. As he does this I catch a glimpse of the whole picture. The man in the funny hat has a very familiar face. It can't be... can it? The picture is out of my sight again as John inspects my ear and then the place where one used to be. He turns me again and that's when I see the name in the picture's caption: Sherlock Holmes. Not a deer hunter but a – another spin – consulting detective. Good for him. It's better than being a pirate. I wonder where he is. "What's this?" asks John, seemingly referring to me; setting me down on the coffee table again, inspection apparently over. It's then that I see another picture – it's one of John standing beside Sherlock.

"In his will," Mycroft explains, his voice slightly louder so he can be heard from the kitchen, "Sherlock left almost everything of value to you." The words startle me and I strain my ear to hear more clearly over the kettle's hissing. "I know you haven't read it for yourself yet but that is what it says. I'm not dumping everything onto you." The clinking of a spoon hitting a cup and Mycroft carries the two cups of tea into the living room. He hands one to John and sits down on the sofa with the other. "Anyway, our childhood home contained a few of Sherlock's older possessions, though unfortunately most of them had to be thrown out. This was the last remaining item... what's so funny?"

John is chuckling softly. "Nothing. Just... Sherlock with a teddy bear. It doesn't sit with my mental picture of Sherlock as a child. Give me a minute." He screws his eyes shut and seems to concentrate. "Fixed it," he chuckles. He shakes his head, sobering. "And he kept it, all of this time."

Mycroft casts a guilty look towards his tea. "Not necessarily, no." He takes a sip. "I kept Teddy. I've kept him since Sherlock was eight or so. I knew that he would have destroyed him sooner or later." I want to tell him, because I understand what's happened now. I know why everyone that I meet has a haunted expression. And I want to tell Mycroft that it's okay; I forgive him. Sherlock would forgive him too. The Sherlock I once knew would have forgiven him. I wish so much that I could see him now, at least once.

John says with a calculating gaze on Mycroft, "You sound awfully sentimental, Mycroft."

This shakes Mycroft out of his reverie, and he sits up on the sofa, smiling tightly. "Apologies," he says. "...I must go. Busy day," he stands and buttons his jacket up, "Look after Teddy, for Sherlock's sake. Can you do that for me?"

John tilts his head to one side. "I... I suppose I can. Yeah." With not so much as another word, Mycroft leaves me with John. John stares at the open door for a while, appearing lost for words. Eventually, he breathes, "...That was weird." He turns to face me. "So..." he begins, a little awkwardly. Clasps his hands together and puts them on his lap. "You're Teddy, are you?" There is little I can do to respond, so I just sit there on top of the newspapers. He narrows his eyes at me. "Mmm. Why do you familiar to me, Teddy?" He thinks on this, and suddenly his face brightens. "Oh, I know."

* * *

><p>It turns out that Doctor John Watson is very good at doctoring. He spent half an hour searching the flat and muttering to himself. The mess is just the same, except it's moved. I had an excellent vantage point from the coffee table. Eventually he pulled out a drawer in the desk and pulled something small and brown out; a semi-circle in shape with a lighter brown on one side. There was broken stitching on the flattest end. It was my ear. I was ever so happy to see it again.<p>

Now he's finished sewing it back on, I'm back in one piece.

I only wish I could say the same for John.

* * *

><p>The headstones we pass are usually grey with some form of moss growing on them. Most of them are old and weather-beaten. But there's one, the one John is taking me to, that is shiny and black and new. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' it reads in gold letters.<p>

John stands for a moment on the grass in front of it, breathes deeply before holding me up to the gravestone and saying, "You really were a sentimental sod." He chuckles but there is no humour in it. "You kept your childhood toy's ear. Yeah, well..." His voice breaks. "Here, have him back." And he sets me down on the grass, leaning against the gravestone. Eternally keeping watch over my old friend's grave. That's how John leaves me; with a murmur of "See you next week," before walking off with a slight limp.

I'm surrounded by death here and I don't like it. But I don't want to leave Sherlock either. So I stay here anyway, waiting. Sherlock would have wanted me to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Here's some pointless trivia for you, readers: this final image, of a teddy bear sitting on someone's grave, was the thing that inspired this story. It was the scene I was most looking forward to writing (I guess I started at the end). There's an epilogue to follow this chapter and then it's all over, I'm sorry to say. Thanks for all our your reviews so far! :)


	13. Epilogue

The sun is tinting the sky a bright orange when the next living thing I see reveals itself. It moves quickly – like a brown cheetah – streaking through the gravestones effortlessly as if it does so every day. The greyhound bounds and leaps over graves – occasionally stopping to sniff at flowers or something less pleasant. It has light brown fur and is wearing a pink coat to keep it warm.

Sometimes it runs back along the footpath in the graveyard, and these times it is even fuller of life than before. It lets its tongue hang out and flop around and its tail never stops wagging. Then it runs away from its owners again, who are somewhere out of sight, and straight towards me. It skids to a stop and towers above me, a glob of saliva dripping from its tongue and onto my arm. It sniffs my tummy with its cold, wet, black nose. It tickles.

The dog inhales my scent – that of an old bear – a few more times before it makes a decision. It picks me up by the leg and takes off. I dangle from its mouth, upside-down, as it dashes along the path. Sherlock's grave disappears behind a wall of fur. There are few people here, but the greyhound zeroes in on a little girl and her mother.

The girl has long, fair hair that travels past her shoulders. She can't be more than four-years-old. She still has baby fat on her cheeks, and her eyes are a bright blue. She's wearing a pink coat as well. It is she who spots us first, and she tugs on her mother's sleeve to drag her attention away from the gravestone they are watching. It is a plain stone, the opposite of Sherlock's expensive-looking one, which simply says 'MORSTAN'. "Mummy, Mummy, look," says the little girl, pointing.

Discreetly wiping a tear from her eye, the mother turns to look. She has brown hair pulled into a rough ponytail. Her face is similar to that of her daughter's, but it is narrower. Her coat isn't pink. "What? Oh. Teddy – put that down," she commands to the dog that has stopped beside them. At first I think that she is talking to me, but then the dog's grip on my leg suddenly ceases and I tumble to the ground head-first. The greyhound – Teddy – gives his owner a sheepish glance and then me a longing one. "Go on, Ted. Off you go." Teddy obediently runs off to do another lap of the graveyard.

The little girl picks me up. She inspects me for a moment before she gives me a little hug. "Mummy, Mummy – can I keep him? He's a he cos he's got a blue bow. Do you see it, Mummy?"

The mother bites her lip. "I don't know where it – he – came from, Hayley," she says.

"Teddy-doggy got him from a shop," smiles Hayley. "He wants me to have him."

Hayley's mother smiles back, and kneels down on one knee so that she's eye-to-eye with her daughter. Hayley is hugging me close and she gently prises me out of Hayley's arms. "Honey, Teddy can't go into shops and buy things. He must have found this bear somewhere nearby."

"He's an abandoned bear?" asks Hayley, sounding outraged. "Like Teddy-doggy was?"

"Yes – no." The mother closes her eyes and inhales. "No... Maybe this bear was left here on purpose. On someone's grave. The problem is I don't know who." She glances around, as if the gravestones will give her the answer.

"Maybe, maybe we can look after the teddy bear until someone says that it's theirs," suggests Hayley. "We come here to visit Daddy every day. Please?" She stretches the word out.

"I don't know..." Then she sighs and hands me over to Hayley, who buries me protectively in her little pink coat. "Just be careful with him, okay?"

Hayley nods; "Yes, Mummy."

The mother rises to her full height again and takes her daughter's hand. It's warm and snuggly underneath this coat; I'd forgotten what it was like to be hugged. The mother blows a kiss at the grave marked 'MORSTAN'. Then she leads the way along the footpath. We're not far from the gate leading to the living world when the mother stops and whistles. "Come on, Teddy!"

The greyhound doesn't take long to reach us and the mother clips a lead onto his collar. He trots obediently behind the mother as we leave the graveyard and my old friend behind.

And from behind a tree, out of the corner of my eye, Sherlock Holmes – alive and breathing – gives me a little wave of goodbye.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And that's the end. Thanks for sticking with Teddy and I for so long, it means a lot. Thanks also for the reviews and the alerts/favourites.

Until next time,

_Random Ruth_


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